7. "We’ve got a law around here about public intoxication - and you’re breaking it right now." "Is that a fact?" "You wise-mouthing me?" "Absolutely.” He took me by one arm. "Put your hands behind your back, sir.” "You can’t be serious.” "I am very serious, sir. I’m placing you under arrest for public intoxication and abusive behavior, and..." "Abusive behaviour? I was just having an exchange of views with..." "Hands behind your back, sir.” He was pulling at my arm, but I suddenly broke free and ran off, helter-skelter. Behind me the cop was shouting, telling me to halt, warning me I’m in breach of five different penal codes. But his words were a blur. The small logical side of my brain that was working wondered: might he try to impede my escape with the use of a firearm? But what cop would risk his job over gunning down a suit on a drunk-and-disorderly charge? As I plunged down a back alley between two office buildings, I turned back once to see if he was in pursuit. He wasn’t - but I still kept up my canter, weaving my way down several backstreets until I hit a wide thoroughfare. I had been running for over five minutes. My clothes were now drenched in sweat. Ditto my hair. And my feet felt inflamed from an extended jog in black wingtip shoes. But at least there was no sign of the cop - though he might have called in backup, which meant there could be at least one cruiser prowling the streets, looking for a wreck in a pinstripe suit, holding a brown bagged bottle of whisky. I glanced down at my left hand. Miraculously, the whisky had not been dropped during my flight from justice. It was, verily, still there. So verily there that I uncorked it and took a steadying swig - though it did little to slack my thirst. Get off the street. I glanced around, looking for somewhere to take shelter; a temporary (and not very obvious) hideout. Across the road there was a Chinese laundry, a coffee shop, a Korean deli, a designer soap shop, a travel agency... Bingo. The travel agency was a small-time operation. A one-room office with one desk and assorted posters for quasi-exotic destinations— Club Class beds on high-end airlines. The woman behind the desk was late middle-aged, badly dressed, evidently overworked, but nonetheless friendly in a direct sort of a way. "I’m glad I’m not having the day you’re having," she said as I threw myself into the steel chair opposite her desk. "That’s the first honest thing anyone’s said to me all day.” "You don’t mind me saying so, sir, you look a little rough.” "Guilty as charged.” "You need anything? Water, aspirin..." "I need a plane ticket to somewhere very far away from here.” "What do you mean by ‘very far away from here’?" "You’re the travel agent, you tell me.” She glanced down at the paper bag in my hand, and I can see her think: the asshole’s been drinking. "Well, sir, if I could have some hint of where you might like to go..." "The ends of the earth," I said, then added: "I know that sounds a little melodramatic, but..." "Do you have a valid passport?" "I do.” In fact, I put it in my suit pocket this morning before I left the house - not knowing at the time why I was pocketing it, but never underestimate the subconscious when it comes to leading you down curious paths. "And when would you like to leave?" "As soon as possible.” "Tonight?" "Sooner.” She was typing something into her keyboard, but was simultaneously staring at me out of the corner of her eye, wondering why I looked like a wreck, whether I’m on the run from the law (well, sort of), and why I had to leave the country in such a flash. But I could tell that the businesswoman in her was thinking: his mess isn’t my business. Getting him on a plane is - and it could be a lucrative sale. "Now when it comes to the ‘ends of the earth’, you have several options. There is, for example, South Africa..." "Too violent.” "Only if you get very unlucky.” "I’ve been getting very unlucky recently.” "How about Patagonia?" "Isn’t it almost winter there?" "All right, then: Australia. And yes, it’s winter there too. But the continent is massive - and if you go right to the top of it, you’ll find it still sub-tropical and hot.” "Sold" I said. "When’s the next flight?" She did some rapid tapping on her computer keyboard. "There’s a flight tonight at 6.15. You’ll have an hour stop over in LA, then on to Sydney, then a change of aircraft for a direct flight to Darwin.” Darwin. He knew a thing or two about the laws of the social jungle. "Book it.” "I do have to warn you, sir, it is a thirty-four hour flight.” "Then I’m going Business Class.” "Do you have a return date?" "No.” "That will also make the ticket rather more expensive.” "Book it.” "And when you arrive in Darwin?" "I’ll figure it out.” Ten minutes later, I left the travel agent with a confirmed Business Class flight to Darwin that night. The price of the ticket had given my American Express card a coronary: six thousand three hundred and twenty. But my credit was good... for the moment anyway.
Posted on: Wed, 17 Jul 2013 13:52:19 +0000